


Pastourelles from Emerië

by kanako91



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Developing Relationship, Drabbles, Emerie, F/M, False Identity, Númenor, Self-Discovery, Textual Ghosts, The Mariner's Wife, missing moment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-08 06:04:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20830607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanako91/pseuds/kanako91
Summary: Three looks on the days when there were only Emerwen and Mámandil.





	Pastourelles from Emerië

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Pastorelle dall’Emerië](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10746405) by [kanako91](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanako91/pseuds/kanako91). 

#### I.  
Nessanië

Hallacar dismounts his horse and his eyes wander around, focusing on nothing —not even on Nessanië, who watches from the top of the staircase. The simple rough tunic and the sandals, with laces that twist around his calves, leave no doubt about where he has been.

With _her_.

He’s so disheveled, her little brother. His hair is a mess and his tunic is all rumpled, but most telling of all is his lost gaze.

If she’d seen him a little sooner, Nessanië could have bet his lips had been reddened.

A groom takes his horse and Hallacar starts up the stairs, fingers combing through his hair, in an attempt to untangle the curls on his temple. Or perhaps seeking the lingering warmth of the fingers that knotted them.

He is at the top of the staircase, when he notices her.

Nessanië smiles at him, an arm draped around her round belly, and Hallacar just nods at her as he enters the house.

The smile doesn’t leave her lips.

He tried to be no one, for the challenge of it, but he met his match.

_She’s a she-wolf in sheep’s clothing, your princess._

And now the game got out of his hand.

#### II.  
Hallacar

Hallacar jumps off his horse, before he’s tempted to turn it back to the pastures, back to her.

Unsatisfied desire runs in his veins and he no longer knows how to quench it.

It is impossible for him to forget those hands between his hair, her body arching against him, solid and soft, real and divine, while the most earthly sounds he could imagine come from those lips that should only consume the food of the Lords of the West.

It wasn’t the first time with her, it was one of countless others. But still, each time is different. It is now a month they see each other, but today Hallacar can’t just go back to his father’s house.

His mind is elsewhere, among the pastures near Hyarastorni, between those legs he should know too well, which he should be tired of, which he can’t help but want again, and again.

And again.

He feels cold away from her, as if Anar set decades ago, when it’s only been minutes.

He’s far from the princess bright as day and he still craves her radiance.

He’s been scalded and one look at Nessanië reveals an unpleasant truth: she knows.

And Hallacar flees.

#### III.  
Ancalimë

Oh, Ancalimë understands now.

As she passes the soapy sponge over her arms, breasts and hips still tender from the pleasure that shook them, Ancalimë knows what —according to her mother— drives men to seek women just for the needs of the body. They are sweet and devastating pleasures.

Are women really merely instruments serving the pleasure of men?

Something tells her the opposite is also true.

Or maybe it is so only with Mámandil. He is at her service, as he professes in his ridiculous songs.

Ancalimë smiles. He likes to make them increasingly absurd, because he knows how she will shut him up.

Isn't that a service to her body's needs? Those needs that she always had, and they told her to placate by herself —as she has done so far.

But by herself there isn’t laughter and the indecent words Mámandil whispers in her ear, there isn’t the wait —not knowing what he will do next—, there isn’t that loss of control she longs for.

In Mámandil's arms she is free.

She is the King’s Heir no longer.

She is just Emerwen.

And... she likes it.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really slow at translating, but I'll get there eventually :°D And with each translation I discover how my use of Italian isn't straightforward at all.
> 
> Anyway, _pastourelles_ (the consensual ones, tho) always fascinated me and while reading _The Mariner's Wife_ the whole Emerwen/Mamandil dynamic made me think of them, so these drabbles kind of wrote themselves.  
They're also characters' studies for a longfic I've been writing for some years, but I digress. 
> 
> Thanks to [yeah_well_hey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeah_well_hey) for the advice on how to English! ♥️  
Any mistake is mine ;)
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Kan


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